“WHEN THAT LEFT FOOT HITS THE GROUND, I WANT TO HEAR THAT CLAPPING SOUND!” sang Cadet Black. He ran to the left of our formation, looking at us as he ran.
“Okay, Third Platoon! When I say a phrase, you repeat it back to me. Loud and in a motivated manner! It’ll keep your mind off the running and keep you in step! If you can’t hang with the pace, exit the formation! Someone will drop back to police up your sorry carcass!” Then he really let loose. “BUT WE WON’T HAVE ANY FALL-OUTS IN THIS FORMATION. WILL WE, THIRD PLATOON?”
“NO, SIR!” we yelled back.
“LEFT! LEFT! LEFT, YO’ RIGHT, YO’ LE-EFT!” he sang on. I sang back as loudly as I could. I felt great. The pace was too easy, but at least I was running. I felt more relaxed than I had since my dad had driven the Volvo through West Point’s gate yesterday morning.
“LEFT! LEFT! KEEP IT IN STE-EP!”
Ping was running in front of me. I watched his feet, making sure I stayed in step. He seemed to have good rhythm—he never messed up once. We hung a left. Huge, identical brick houses with enclosed porches and manicured lawns lined the street.
“OKAY, NOW, THIRD PLATOON. LISTEN UP!” yelled Cadet Black. “C-130 ROLLIN’ DOWN THE STRIP—” he sang.
I echoed his phrase with the other new cadets, having no idea what I was singing about. I accidentally stepped on the back of Ping’s shoe. “Sorry,” I whispered. He must think I’m totally uncoordinated.
“SIXTY-FOUR TROOPERS ON A ONE-WAY TRIP!” Cadet Black really did have a great voice. And not too low—I could sing with him.
“STAND UP, HOOK UP, SHUFFLE TO THE DOOR—”
Some of the guys in my platoon were struggling with the pace. I’m barely breathing! They must really be out of shape. And I was surprised to see that the companies ahead of us had already dropped people. New cadets littered the sidewalks beside the road—one here, two or three there—bent over or trotting along, trying to catch their breath. Most of them, I noticed, were girls.
“JUMP RIGHT OUT AND COUNT TO FOUR!”
I looked over Ping’s head for Gabrielle. She was hanging in there, her red bun bouncing, behind Cadet Daily. Just keep it up, Gab. Don’t drop out!
“IF MY ’CHUTE DON’T OPEN WIDE—”
I could hear the loud chanting of the platoons in front of and behind us. I’d sure hate to live on this street, being woken up at 6:30 in the morning.
“I’VE GOT A RE-SERVE BY MY SIDE!”
A “ree-zerve”? What’s a “ree-zerve”?
“IF THAT ONE SHOULD FAIL ME, TOO—”
I repeated after him, wondering what came next. It was like listening to a story.
“LOOK OUT BELOW, I’M COMIN’ THROUGH!”
A couple of guys made a loud, guttural noise in response: “Hu-ah!” Cadet Black grinned and started singing about two old ladies lying in bed, wanting to be Airborne Rangers, whatever that meant. And after that, something about a granny meeting St. Peter at the Pearly Gates and making him do push-ups.
I was really getting into it now, and so was everyone else. And we were loud, actually having fun repeating these crazy songs. But what about the people who live on this street? They must hate us!
I looked at my watch. We had run for nine minutes. Another company, with its gold-and-black guidon leading the way, ran toward us on the other side of the street.
“SOUND OFF, NOW, THIRD PLATOON!” hollered Cadet Black, punching the air with his fist toward the oncoming company, passing by on our left. “LET’S LET INDIA COMPANY KNOW THAT WE OWN THIS ROAD! LISTEN UP: HOLD YOUR NOSE AND BOW YOUR HEAD—” he sang, and we repeated after him.
“WE ARE PASSING BY THE DEAD!”
Then Cadet Black directed all the insults he could muster at them: “HEY YOU! ON THE LEFT! SICK CALL! LOOKIN’ WEAK!” And after every phrase we yelled our loudest. I could see the open mouths of India Company’s new cadets as we passed, giving it right back to us. I felt the energy building all around me. It was like being at a pep rally. And suddenly I was proud, proud to be in Third Platoon. We were the loudest and the best. Who cared about the sleeping residents of this street? We did own this road!
CHAPTER 6
THURSDAY, 1 JULY 1510
These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do.
If all you’re doing is markin’ time,
They’ll walk all over you.
—U.S. ARMY MARCHING CADENCE
WATER STREAMED OUT of the shower heads, drenching me, the seven other new cadets of Third Squad, and Cadet Daily. Wearing a one-piece black Speedo swimsuit and flip-flops, I stood at attention in the shower room of the male latrine. New Cadets Boguslavsky and Ping stood beside me in their black swimming trunks. Gabrielle, on the far side of the shower, was next to New Cadet Cero. The way she pulled at the elastic around her thighs seemed to scream, “I look fat in this stupid suit, don’t I?”
“Grab a boot in one hand, your nail brush in the other,” Cadet Daily ordered. His voice filled the room, tiled from ceiling to floor. “Cover the boot with saddle soap”—he pointed to the cans at our feet—“and scrub every inch of the boot until all the bluing comes off. Got it?”
“YES, SIR!”
“You’ve got to get the bluing off so the boots can breathe. The last thing you want on a road march, Third Squad, is waterproof boots. They’ll turn your feet into a mess of blisters and you into a haze magnet with crutches.” He crossed his arms. “When you finish with the boots, do your low quarters. Understand?”
“YES, SIR!”
“Good. Then, work!”
I’m getting this West Point talk down. After making it through three complete days of new cadet life, I could now understand about half of what was said to me. When Cadet Daily said, “low quarters,” I knew that he meant the black shoes worn with White Over Gray—shoes that only a dead person would be caught dead in. I shoved my right hand deep inside one of my combat boots and started scrubbing. Diluted black dye ran from my hands, down my legs, and into the drain.
It hadn’t taken me long to learn that the days at West Point varied very little. The routine was already imprinted in my mind:
0530: Wake-up. Reveille and P.T. Formation. P.T. Shower. 0800: Breakfast Formation. Breakfast. Military Skills Training classes. 1300: Lunch Formation. Lunch. Drill Practice on the Plain. More classes. Mass Athletics. Shower. 1800: Dinner Formation. Dinner. Squad Leader Time. Boot- and shoe-polishing time. 2200: Lights Out. Taps. Sleep.
Even the Fourth of July would be no different.
I secretly liked the sameness, though I’d never admit it to anyone. People would think I was crazy to like West Point, but here at least life was consistent. Predictable. So different from my life at home.
The pace hadn’t let up one bit, though, and that took some getting used to. Every minute was packed with an almost frenzied busyness. I had no time to escape, to get away from everything and just think. Only a scant ten minutes ago, Third Squad had stood on the Plain, clutching M-14 rifles and wearing Battle Dress Uniform Under Arms—fatigues, Army-green pistol belt with a bayonet fastened over the left hip and a quart canteen of water over the right.
Now we were dressed for the pool and scrubbing like washerwomen while Cadet Daily sloshed around us in his flip-flops and swimming trunks, inspecting our work.
As the water continued to spray over me, I realized I was beginning to feel self-conscious in my swimsuit. But not like Gabrielle; I knew I didn’t look fat, and wearing a swimsuit didn’t bother me. After all, I’d practically lived inside one for the past two summers, lifeguarding at my local YMCA. Standing out and getting noticed was a necessary part of my job then. But now I just wanted to blend in. My problem was, standing here in my black Speedo, surrounded by seven half-naked guys in the shower of the male latrine, I knew I was doing anything but blending in.
I scrubbed the boot harder to erase the thought.
Besides, the only difference that I could see between the male latrine and the femal
e latrine was four urinals. Everything else was laid out exactly the same. The wall of bathroom stalls. The row of sinks. The locker area. The large tiled room, where we stood now, with shower heads all around and no privacy curtains. And everywhere the smell of new cadet-issued Dial soap and Johnson’s baby shampoo, mixed with sweat, clung to the damp air.
No difference at all. But I wasn’t convinced. Deep down I felt like I didn’t really belong here.
“Relax, Knuckleheads!” Cadet Daily’s voice disrupted my thoughts. “This is Squad Leader Time.” He stopped splish-splashing around and stood in front of Ping, to my left. “Let’s get to know each other,” he said. “You’re first, Combat. State your full name, where you’re from, what you’re famous for, and why you’re here. In that order. Do you think you can remember that, Bonehead?”
“Yes, sir,” Ping said.
Real relaxing. I bit my lip and globbed more saddle soap on the boot. I’m next. Great. Famous? I’m not famous for anything. And why am I here? What in the world am I going to say?
“Sir, my name is George Ping—”
“You’re not telling me, Knucklehead. I already know everything about you. You’re telling your squadmates.”
He knows everything about us? About me? I scrubbed harder.
“Yes, sir. I’m George Ping. I just came from the Prep School at Fort Monmouth. Before that I was stationed at Fort Bragg, as a medic with the 82nd Airborne. But originally I’m from Phoenix.” Cadet Daily remained in front of Ping, studying him. Ping looked directly at him and said, “And I’m here because I didn’t want to be an E-5 in the Army anymore.”
“That so?” Cadet Daily smiled. An amused, almost sarcastic smile. “What’re you famous for, Combat?” He leaned closer. Water from his nose dripped onto Ping’s. “How’d you get that Bronze Star, Hotshot? And all those other medals. Steal ’em off some dead guy?”
“Sir, I earned them in Afghanistan.”
For a second all scrubbing ceased. I didn’t know what a Bronze Star was, but it sure sounded impressive. The lower part of Cadet Daily’s face retained the smile, but something like jealousy flashed in his eyes. He stepped back.
“Ping.” He spat it more than said it. “I’ve got a smack named ‘Ping.’ Unbelievable.” He shook his head. “You’re going to catch all kinds of heat with a name like that! I almost feel sorry for you, Combat. But don’t get your hopes up—almost is the operative word. What kind of name is ‘Ping,’ anyway?”
“Sir, Ping is a Chinese name. In the Fujian dialect of south China, ‘Ping’ translates to ‘soldier,’ sir.”
“How apropos,” Cadet Daily said. Then he turned to me. “Davis, what do you got?”
I stared at the gray water disappearing down the drain, wishing I could follow it. After Ping I had nothing impressive to say. “I’m Andi—short for Andrea—Davis. I’m from Lake Zurich, Illinois. Um, that’s a suburb of Chicago. And I’m famous for, um, running, I guess—”
“Running?” Cadet Daily looked interested. “Did you get recruited for track?”
Recruited? I didn’t know people got recruited for sports at West Point. I shook my head. “No, sir. But I ran track in high school. Cross country, too.”
He turned his green eyes on me. My Speedo suddenly felt awfully skimpy. I tugged at the tongue of my lathered boot. I knew I didn’t look much like a runner. Not a long distance runner, anyway. I didn’t have the requisite stick legs, and, well, I had too much on top.
Suddenly I heard my mother’s voice, speaking to my doctor during an annual checkup: “With knockers like that, she could be a go-go dancer, couldn’t she?” I squeezed my eyes shut to clear my head. I’m so glad she’s not here now.
“You any good, Davis?” Cadet Daily asked.
I shrugged. “I guess, sir.” I never went to State. The thought just sat there, condemning me. How good can you be if you never went to State? I rubbed the toe of my boot with the nail brush. White leather peeked through the lather in places. I had qualified—twice in cross country, and once in the 3000—but had never gone. My mother had seen to that. She hated “that good-for-nothing running.”
I chewed the inside of my lip, wondering what to say next.
“You’ll wear a hole in your boot scrubbing like that, Davis,” Cadet Daily said. I could feel him staring at the crown of my head, waiting. I watched my feet and the bluing running over them. My toes looked funny, tinted gray. “And you came to West Point because . . .” he prompted.
Because one thousand long miles stretched between West Point and home? Because I didn’t want to owe my parents anything anymore? But I couldn’t tell him—or Third Squad—that. “Sir, I came to West Point because . . . well, um, I’m not exactly sure why.” I raised my eyes to his face, and suddenly the words came fast. “But, sir, this girl—a cadet, actually—came to my high school to talk about West Point to anyone who wanted to know about it. That was my junior year. And well, I stopped by her display—it was right in front of the library—and it sounded like something I’d like to do, and I’ve always liked being outside—”
“If you just want to be outside,” Cadet Daily said, annoyed, “join the Peace Corps!”
I had let myself babble, and now he was mad at me. Way to go, Andi.
He stepped closer, his green eyes penetrating mine. “If you don’t figure out why you’re here, Davis, you’re never going to stay.” He moved on to stand in front of New Cadet Boguslavsky, then turned back to me. “This afternoon, during Mass Athletics, what did you sign up for, Davis?”
“Sir, I signed up for softball.” I remembered how yesterday afternoon I had surprised myself, hitting a double. That hit had made my day, but I would’ve traded that play in a second for my running shoes, a long path in the woods, and a big chunk of time—alone.
“Well, I’ll make sure you get hooked up with the Women’s Cross Country Team. The captain of the team’s a personal friend of mine. And tryouts for Corps Squad—” He eyed the faces around the room. “Here’s a new vocabulary word for you, Smack Heads. At Woo Poo U, Corps Squad means varsity, N C double A, Divison One.” He redirected his attention to me. “Tryouts for Corps Squad are in a couple of weeks.”
I might be able to run here! I could’ve hugged him right there—Speedo suit and all. But, of course, I didn’t. “Thank you, sir,” I croaked.
“Yeah, well, don’t embarrass me, Davis. I better not see you falling out on any runs.” He switched his focus onto New Cadet Boguslavsky. “All right, Boguslavsky. You’re up.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Christopher Scott Boguslavsky, but I go by ‘Kit.’ And I come from Monongalia County, West Virginia.”
“Mono—whatever you said—County, Bogus?” Cadet Daily snarled. “We want a city, not a county, Bonehead.”
“Yes, sir. I come from a town called Crossroads, close to Morgantown—that’s the home of WVU—and down a stretch from Efaw’s Knob in Monongalia”—he emphasized every syllable—“County, West Virginia.” He had a slight southern accent, one that wove around his words but never quite settled in. “Back home, I’m famous for being the preacher’s kid, and I came here because I heard the hunting’s good.” He smiled. “And, of course, I wanted the challenge.”
Cadet Daily crossed his arms and smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Good answer there, Bogus. But guess what?” The top of Cadet Daily’s head only reached the bottom of Boguslavsky’s chin, so he had to take a step back to get good eye contact. “The hunting’s only good for the hunters, Wise Guy. And I’ve got my sights set on you!” He moved along the sloppy line of new cadets, boots, shoes, and saddle soap that stretched across the room. “Mr. Hickman, you’re next.”
When Hickman opened his mouth, a thick drawl crawled out. “Well, my name is Tommy Hickman from Birmingham, Alabama.” He put down his scrubbed boot and picked up the fresh one. “I’m famous for my fastball that got me a 1.02 ERA during my senior year.” He paused dramatically, a smug expression on his face. “I’m here because Army Baseball recruited me, and be
cause my dad’s a Citadel grad.” He stood a little straighter. “I want to do better.”
There are some people you like immediately. Hickman wasn’t one of them.
“You think pretty highly of yourself, Hickman, for being nothing more than a scum-sucking maggot.” The smug look on Hickman’s face instantly vanished. Cadet Daily moved on. “Okay, Bonehead Bonanno, you’re up.”
“Yes, sir. My name’s Frank Bonanno, and—”
“Whoa, Nellie!” Cadet Daily leaned closer to Bonanno, whose nose nearly touched Cadet Daily between the eyes. “Bonanno, did you shave this morning?”
Bonanno swallowed. “Yes, sir!”
Cadet Daily frowned and closely eyed the condition of Bonanno’s face. “I think you need to step a little closer to that razor, Fur Face.”
Fur face? From where I stood, two people away, Bonanno’s face appeared to have a light haze of stubble in places, but it looked okay to me.
Bonanno swallowed again. “Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, shave your back. No telling what kind of vermin is hiding in that jungle.”
The look on Bonanno’s face was one of pure shock. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he stammered. The rest of us were staring hard at our boots, trying to keep from laughing out loud. With Cadet Daily around, no subject was sacred.
“Okay, Bonanno, as you were. Finish telling us about yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” Bonanno had a shapeless nose and bushy eyebrows. And, as Cadet Daily had pointed out, Bonanno was a hairy guy. His shorn head seemed mismatched with the rest of his body. “My name’s Frank Bonanno, and I’m from Long Island,” he said in a voice that I’d only heard taxi drivers in the movies use. “I’m famous for . . . does winning New York State’s spelling bee in the third grade count, sir?”
Cadet Daily laughed, then coughed, trying to cover it up. “You’re a real go-getter, huh, Bonanno?”
“Yes, sir!”